


To Be Him

by Deeranger



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Crazy Sam Winchester, Creepy Sam Winchester, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Drugged Sex, Drunk Sex, Evil Sam Winchester, F/M, Feels, Forced, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Injury Recovery, Non-Consensual Touching, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Obsession, Pain, Rape, Reader-Insert, Sam Winchester & Reader Friendship, Sexual Abuse, Top Sam Winchester, Tumblr Prompt, Unrequited Love, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27478825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deeranger/pseuds/Deeranger
Summary: Badly injured during a hunt you’re left in the bunker with Sam while your boyfriend Dean goes after the monster that hurt you. Almost knocked out by pain medication and booze after surgery all you want to do is rest. While falling asleep the only thing you can think about is how much you miss Dean, your drugged brain not really picking up on much else. But your rest is about to be interrupted - and you’re about to find out just what you have been missing.
Relationships: Sam Winchester/Reader, Sam Winchester/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	To Be Him

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this prompt on Tumblr:  
> Isn't it messed up how I'm just dying to be him?

The pillow is soft under your head, the striped cotton damp from your breath as you hug it a little tighter. God, you’re beyond exhausted. But that isn’t so weird after all because you’ve probably got enough alcohol in your system to knock out a full-grown man when it comes down to it. And the room is spinning accordingly even though it’s way too dark to see a thing in here. The night lamp is conveniently shut off, leaving you to relax in the dark and get the rest you so desperately need. Briefly, you consider that your liver must be absolutely hating you right now. Not only is your bloodstream full of alcohol, but it’s accompanied by a shitload of painkillers as well. A toxicology screening probably wouldn’t look too good. A small chuckle wants to escape you at that but the sound doesn’t really make it out, it just becomes a lazy smile that gets smothered into the pillow.  
  


Moving a little to get even more comfortable you realize that whatever the doctor at that shady clinic gave you is already working far better than what you had expected. Hell, if it wasn’t for the room spinning and your body feeling like a lead weight you’d feel as good as new. The stitched-up wound in your side probably doesn’t agree with that, but as long as you can’t feel it you honestly don’t care. Moving doesn’t even hurt anymore. Dazed you can’t help but wonder what kind of drugs you were given, but the doctor guy seemed to know what he was doing and Dean vouched for him. Dean. Your heart feels like it clenches a little, fluttering in your chest. You miss him already even though it has only been hours since he left to chase down the damn monster that injured you. The bunker feels too empty and quiet now. It’s just you and Sam here and you already long for your boyfriend to make it back, to hug him, to kiss him, to just melt into his arms and stay there.

  
Hugging the pillow tighter you breathe in Dean’s scent, that sweet mix of sweat and cologne that lingers on the striped bedclothes from last night. Somehow it feels soothing, almost like he’s here. It calms you down. Or maybe it’s just the drugs, you’re not really sure. ‘ _Silly_ ,’ you think to yourself, your closed eyelids twitching a little as sleep tries to overpower you.

  
Man, it feels like you weigh three hundred pounds or something, like you’re sinking deep into the mattress and melting right through its springs. If this is what tripping out on drugs feels like you can’t say you blame people for becoming addicted to the stuff. The darkness surrounding you just spins and spins but even though it’s dizzying it doesn’t make you nauseous. That’s good. Everything’s pretty good, actually. You just need Dean to hug you. That’s all.

  
As you doze off, you think you hear the subtle slaps of bare feet moving across the floor. You’re not at all sure though. And you haven’t heard the door to yours and Dean’s room open either. Somehow you’re not sure if you care though. The prospect of sleep is simply too alluring and you can’t bring yourself to think about it any further. Besides, it seems your brain isn’t too fond of thinking at the moment anyway.

  
Did the bed just dip a little? You don’t know, can’t be sure. Maybe Dean is back already? How long have you been lying here anyway? Half an hour? Five? Great, you’ve lost track of time. For all you know it could be morning already. That’s one of the downsides of not having windows in this place.

  
Something warm brushes against your shoulder. A hand. It feels familiar, calloused fingertips grazing the skin just below the sleeve of Dean’s worn Metallica T-shirt that you slipped into earlier. He’s back. Your heart flutters again and you let out a soft sigh as turn on to your side towards the warm body next to yours.

  
Your eyes are still closed as you breathe in his scent, letting muscular arms wrap around you in the dark. God, you missed him. The spicy smell of sandalwood and petrichor with just a touch of leather perfectly match the scent stuck in the bedclothes, and you smile as you think about Dean’s facial expression when he unwrapped the gift. Perfume isn’t exactly his kind of thing, but he has worn it faithfully ever since you gave him the small bottle. And now is no different. The smell is a little strange though. Maybe it’s because he just put it on - it’s definitely fresh, probably still moist on his skin.

  
Nuzzling your face into his shirt you savor the feeling of being held, of being surrounded by his warmth. His fingers tenderly stroke your hair, letting you melt into his embrace and you sleepily manage to place a hand on his chest, feeling the soft fabric of his T-shirt under your fingertips. Strange. His chest rises and falls steadily, but it’s like he’s breathing faster than he normally does. Slightly confused you notice the thrumming of his heart, the sensitive pads of your fingertips picking up on it through the cotton, and you can’t understand why the rhythm is so fast. That’s unusual. And he still smells different somehow.

  
Drowsily you try to open your eyes, to force your heavy eyelids apart despite them insisting on staying closed. Even though you succeed you can’t see anything but darkness, so you convince yourself to pull back just a tiny bit. Your body protests as sleep is chased away and the arm wrapped around you tightens just a little as it follows you.

  
Instinctively you lift your head you look up at him, hoping that this weird feeling in your gut is just messing with you. Or maybe it’s the drug-induced buzzing in your brain that has you imagining things? Whatever it is you still can’t see anything but pitch-black darkness, so you don’t even have a facial expression to go by. And why hasn’t he said anything yet? That isn’t like him. Something is off. You don’t know what it is, but your intuition usually isn’t wrong.

  
“Dean…?” you slur, voice thick with sleep and gruff from too much cheap bourbon. Confused and with brows furrowed you manage to extend your arm backward towards the nightstand next to the bed, fingers fumbling for the switch to the lamp. The arm around you is very reluctant to let you pull back but it doesn’t stop you either and as your fingers finally find the little plastic switch, light pours from the bulb to illuminate the room in a harsh, yellow hue.

  
Wincing as the sudden light stabs at your eyes you squint, trying to make out the face next to yours. Everything is way too bright though and it takes a few seconds for your eyes to adjust, your pupils lazy and too blown from the drugs to react normally. But it doesn’t take long for your surroundings to wobble into focus.

  
“What…?” you croak, confusion painted on your face as you pull back a little further – but the arm follows you, trying to stop you from leaving the embrace.

  
“Sam, what hell…?” you burst out, your voice still so slurred and raspy that you almost don’t recognize it. But the young Winchester’s grip on you is still insisting that you stay, and you blink rapidly, not quite sure what is happening.

  
“Sssh, ssh, it’s okay,” he says, pulling at you a little to return you to nestle against him. Bewildered you feel your brows knit themselves closer together and you resist the way his arm attempts to reel you back in. Stiffening the best your drugged body can manage you look up at him:

  
“What are you doing?” 

  
He lets out a small huff at that, hazel eyes looking down on you with a strange look in them that you can’t decipher. A small smile is playing on his lips now and he pulls on you again. The movement is gentle but more resolute than before and this time you find it a little difficult to resist, your body seemingly drained of strength and muscles refusing to kick properly into action.

  
“It’s okay, just relax. I’m taking care of you,” Sam says and once again his long fingers rub your skin reassuringly, the calloused pads feeling slightly rough on your upper arm. He doesn’t seem to notice your befuddled expression as you shake your head, unable to fathom what on earth your boyfriend’s brother is doing in your bed.

  
“I don’t need you to take care of—“ you begin, but you trail off as you notice the T-shirt Sam is wearing.

  
“Is… Is that Dean’s shirt?” you ask dumbly, your glance settling on the Van Halen print that you know all too well. This is the old T-shirt that Dean always sleeps in, holes and all. So, what the hell is Sam doing wearing it? How did he even get a hold of it? It’s too small for him, the cotton stretched taut over his chest, and it doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. Perplexed you dart your glance back to his face, your hazed brain working overtime to figure out what has gotten into your friend, but he doesn’t look like he even heard you. Instead, he’s brushing some strands of hair out of your face, still wearing that weird smile. It’s almost as if he’s on cloud nine for some reason, a dreamy look on his face. His pupils even look a little large now that you think about it. 

  
“Are you high??” you blurt out, not caring one bit about the bluntness of your question. But Sam just chuckles softly and tilts his head ever so slightly, looking as if he’s both surprised and amused at your words.

  
“No, silly. You are,” he smiles and suddenly you feel his thumb caress your cheek. For a moment you freeze, unsure of what to think - but when his thumb trails down to brush against your lips, carefully dipping the pad in between them, your mind seems to suddenly come to a screeching halt. Because what the _fuck_? This time your muscles seem to react the way your mind intends them to and you shy away, nearly whipping your head to the side from the unexpected touch. And now he’s the one to freeze to the spot.

  
“Get out,” you hear yourself say, anger seeping into your voice and mixing with disbelief. It sounds a little shakier than you’d like, but who can blame you.

  
“You don’t mean that… Just come here,” Sam says and now you feel the muscles in his arm flex as he pulls you a little closer, seemingly not noticing how you go stiff as a board.

  
“Just let me take care of you, sweetheart,” he says, nearly drawls, and your eyes go wide. Sam never uses that pet name. Ever. Only Dean calls you that and it sounds all wrong coming from his brother like this. It sounds… Scary.

  
“No…! What the hell’s wrong with you?!“ you spit, ignoring how your voice wants to grow thin and crack.

  
“Don’t be like that,” Sam says, still in that weird drawl that sends chills down your spine. And then he pulls you closer. This time he puts a little more strength into it and you scoot across the sheet like you weigh nothing, ending up with your face pressed against his chest. A sharp inhale makes the earthy scent of perfume explode in your nostrils and your mind hurries to finally realize that he must’ve been in Dean’s belongings in the bathroom too. Just like he has “borrowed” his shirt from your shared bedroom. 

  
“Let go of me!” you yell, but the sound gets muffled and almost suffocated by the way your face is squashed against the too-tight T-shirt. But Sam doesn’t let go. Instead, he hugs you so firmly that it would probably hurt were you not so doped up.

  
“Aww, come on, baby, shhh...“ he begins, his voice rumbling deep in his chest as he tries to soothe you. But all it does is make your heart lodge itself somewhere in your throat, getting stuck there like some huge lump of ice. And finally, you realize that he isn’t playing around. And this isn’t some fever dream. No, this is painfully real and for the first time, a real spike of horror flashes through your mind, a whimper spilling from your lips only to get swallowed up by the Van Halen shirt as you begin to push at him.

  
“Sam! Let go!” you cry, shoving at him with hands way too weak from alcohol and painkillers. But he clings to you, both strong arms now holding you in place without much effort.

  
“Easy, easy…! J-Just calm down, please, just let me—“

  
“No!” you yell, squirming and not caring one bit if the stitches will hold or not.

  
“God damn it, just hold still! Close your eyes, come on, it’ll be just like when you’re with him, okay??” Sam’s voice pleads, but you don’t want to hear it. You refuse to. Still, the words seep into your brain to muddle with the growing panic in there, leaving you to shake violently in his grip.

  
“You’re not- you’re not him! You’re not Dean!” you cry, pure horror threatening to steal all air from your lungs when suddenly a hand trails down your back and grabs your butt, squeezing it. You’re only wearing panties under the T-shirt and his touch makes goosebumps rise everywhere on your skin in a matter of seconds.

  
“Don’t…!” you squeak and now your fists are weakly hammering against his chest, trying to inflict pain, to make him pull back, make him snap out of it, anything. But he doesn’t even flinch. He probably doesn’t even _feel_ it. You, on the other hand, feel a hell of a lot right now despite the abundance of drugs in your system. Every little touch, the warm puffs of his breath, his broad chest pressed against you, and the way his fingers caress the skin right where your buttock meets your thigh… and you feel more than just a little pathetic. The complete absence of physical strength has your mind reeling. It’s one of the very things that earns you the title of ‘hunter’ but right now you’re as defenseless as the day you were born.

  
“Please, stop!” you gasp, letting out another squeak when the hand on your ass slide across your hip only to stuff itself in between your bodies, long fingers rubbing at the silk panties. 

  
“Don’t say that! I can be what you want, I can be him…!” Sam hisses, frustration creeping into his voice. It’s booming with urgency and anger and need and hurt and so many other things that you never thought you’d hear from him. Things you never thought he was even capable of. 

  
“I’ve watched you for so long, wanted you for so long…!” he says, almost in a groan, and his fingers work a little harder, rubbing at you through the underwear.

  
“But all you ever see is Dean! Why’m I not good enough?!” he grunts, stifling a moan when his fingertip pushes your panties aside and slips through your folds, rubbing and massaging and circling the tender flesh with scary vigor. You squirm, breath hitching and heart racing, but no matter how hard you try you can’t get your body to gather enough strength to push him off. Even if sober that would be a feat in itself, because he is a hell of a lot bigger than you. Heavier. Stronger.

  
“Sam, please—“

  
“Be quiet! You want Dean? Sure…! Fine! You can have him! But first, you’ll have me!” he spits – and before you know it the world is doing barrel rolls and you suddenly find yourself on your back, Sam’s weight crushing you into the mattress.

  
“If he can have you, so can I! He’s no better than me!” he snarls, hazel eyes narrowed and lust-blown as he wedges a knee in between your legs, forcing them to part.

  
“Always the big hero… So fuckin’ self-righteous!” he pants, grabbing both of your wrists with one large hand when you try to hit him. Within a split second they’re pinned to the mattress, squashed into it hard enough to make it feel like your bones are close to snapping like twigs. 

  
”Isn't it messed up how I'm just dying to be him?” he huffs, a dark gleam in his eye.

  
“To have what he has?” he says, lowering himself down over you to let his lips ghost across the shell of your ear when you turn your face away. A low chuckle escapes him but there’s no humor in it at all. It just sounds hollow. Cold. And when he suddenly presses against you can’t hold back the horrified whine tumbling out of your mouth – because he’s hard as a rock. He’s hard as a rock and he’s pushing against your entrance without preamble. Without any sort of mercy. You even see him smile before you screw your eyes shut, a choked sound ripping from your throat when he rolls his hips, forcing the head of his dick inside of you. 

  
“Well, now I do…” he moans, burying his face in the crook of your neck with a ragged exhale. As his hot breath turns your skin damp you try to fight back the tears, try to disassociate yourself from the humiliation, and the intense burn of his dick stretching you far too wide and far too fast. But you can’t block it out. Not when Sam is panting like this, his moans piercing you to the bone as he whispers in your ear: 

  
“Don’t I, baby?” 


End file.
